


Nothing in Stone

by EdgarAllenPoet, nye2020



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: But it's not really plot relevant, Collaboration, Frank Iero is an alien, Frerard, Gothic, Grank, IN SPACE!, M/M, New Jersey, Religious Content, Romantic Comedy, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 23:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nye2020/pseuds/nye2020
Summary: "Frank’s eyes are darting around as he bounces on the balls of his feet, and when his gaze slides down to align with Gerard’s an explosion goes off in his gut."A multi-chatper, multi-themed clusterfuck of a group project that's 100% an excuse to use the word 'Grank.'





	1. Gothic

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS STORY – EVEN THOSE BASED ON REAL PEOPLE – ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL. AGES HAVE BEEN CHANGED AND LOCATIONS HAVE BEEN FABRICATED.
> 
> I wrote this story by googling “gothic horror tropes” and trying to put them all into one chapter. Tropes used include “darkness, dreams/nightmares, omens, eroticism, romance, corrupt church, religious horror, virginal maiden, vampires, serial killers, creepy location, haunted forest, deviance from social norms, and spooky fog.” Thank you. -nye

 

If one listened to the story chittering on the edges of town that Wednesday Father Jason Kelcie had been blessed with a deal from the Vatican. Supposedly, muttered the rustling brush down Grove Street, the Father’s placement in Belleville had been occult in nature, and his arrest and subsequent trial would cast a sinister light on the church’s activities. So dire was this threat to reputation, snickered the coral gravel bedding the city hall driveway, that Father Kelcie had not, in fact, even been arrested. 

 

A Cardinal in collar only had blown into town to consult the police department, then spirited the Father away under cover of darkness on a red-eye flight to Rome. 

 

“My cousin, in Augusta, said he saw Father Kelcie last week at the Waffle House,” Toro posited. 

 

“No way,” Mikey said, “He’s in Vatican jail, definitely.” 

 

Gerard shook his head at both of them and spit out his pen from between his teeth, right hand still sketching with an old, chewed up #2 pencil. 

 

“He’s a vampire. He’s in Vatican Vampire Reform School.” 

 

“Dude,” Mikey shot back, picking the pen up off the library floor and rubbing it clean with a corner of his uniform blazer. 

 

“Your guess can’t always be vampires.” 

 

As the three argued, voices too loud for the muted ochres and moth-eaten library cushions that ensconced them, former priest and accused serial killer Father Kelcie was neither in jail nor Augusta. For the purposes of Belleville, he had simply vanished, become a specter in the rectory. 

 

The mist had rolled in early that year, long before the summer mugginess had finally oozed its way out of the Jersey air. It had rolled in early and thick, choking the city in its frigid, dripping grip. Thursday was no exception. Street lights fought and lost their glow in the gloom shrouding the streets. The world hummed in tepid yellow as the sun tried to rise, shushed by the clouds eager to begin their October drizzle. The lake off Bloomfield lapped sullenly at its shores, Jenna Kelcie’s body finally breaking the surface. Bobbing in the glassy black expanse, the last of the moon glittered in the blurry whites of her rolled back eyes. Her dress, diaphanous in inexplicably strong tides, buoyed up around her, lifting her to strand, dark hair wreathed in seaweed and fingers tacky with mud, in the reeds. The park was empty, devoid of all human life. Here she would remain, stranded in the shrinking night, until the first joggers came running and the last ne’er-do-wells stumbled home and scared off the pigeons cooing and wading in her skirts. 

 

_Essex County Weekly                                                       10/22/1993                                                                      $1.00_

_—Jenna Kelcie, a 27-year old kindergarten teacher_ , _was found dead_ _the morning of Thursday, October 21. Police received a call at 7:00 a.m. alerting them to the presence of a body in Bloomfield Park. There was no mention of anyone else in the area and police have not announced any suspects. Though the body was found in the lake, Essex Police Detective Sherman Block has told reporters the death is being ruled a homicide. No possible motive has been reported._

_Ms. Kelcie taught at Oakwood Primary in Paramus and leaves behind a fiancé, Scout Sawyer, and a brother, Jason Kelcie._

_The ECPD requests the public refrain from any lake activities. Bloomfield Park will remain open until further notice._

_Any individual with information pertaining to the case or with knowledge of Jenna Kelcie’s whereabouts over the last week should contact the ECPD._

 

In the dream, Gerard trudged through a desert, vast and empty and hot, alone, shoes filled with sand as a storm whipped up on the endless horizon and swept him in a maelstrom of stinging dust. In the dream, he rubbed the grit out of his eyes and found himself in a forest, cacophonous with bird song and cicadas. He tried to move but found his feet, bare and purpled with bruises, sewn into the earth by creeping weeds and gnarled roots. He watched a raven swoop out of a tree and shoot towards him, its caw like a church bell, beak open. He realized, as the bird plucked it out of his skull, that he was now only his left eye, and he could see himself sinking into an eddy of dirt and elm and weeping willow as the raven carried his eyeball up and away, his body shrinking into a tiny dot below. 

 

He woke up flat on his back, alarm clock beeping to his right, bedroom door shuddering on its hinges from some invisible onslaught. He wasted thirty seconds burrowed under the covers deciding which noise to address first before he stuffed the alarm clock underneath his pillow, quieted, and shuffled to the door. On the threshold stood a dressed and groomed Mikey and, in the absence of the earlier clamor, Gerard realized just how silent the house was. Mikey stuck out a long leg and kicked Gerard’s ankle. 

 

“Mom got called in to cover a 6am bridal party client. If we leave in the next 10 minutes we can get McDonald’s before class.” 

 

Gerard looked at him, wide-eyed, tried to process the information. 

 

“Gee. You have to drive. Mom is gone. French fries.”

 

“Yes, got it. Balanced breakfast,” Gerard nodded, left Mikey in the hall, plunged his hands into a pile of clothes on the floor, searched for something clean in the mess. 

 

The ride to Mikey’s high school was dreadfully short, stuffy with Steve Harris’ bass and the greasy smell of hot coffee and egg muffins. Gerard imagined, trundling through the streets under a haze of clouds and dove-grey filtered sunlight, that the car was a bubble, warding off the ill omens of his dream that crept up on the edges of his vision. 

 

“It wasn’t even a GOOD dream,” Gerard lamented, idled at a stoplight. “Nothing original. Standard bad dream imagery. A fucking raven, Mikey. It doesn’t get more stereotypical than that.” 

 

Mikey had sunk progressively lower in his seat as they approached Queen of Peace, bent in half with his legs crooked at the knees and shoved between the dashboard and the side window. 

 

“Maybe ravens are actually evil, and every old horror movie was trying to warn us,” Mikey said, pulled his legs in a little and wedged the paper coffee cup between his thighs and his chin, glasses fogged from the steam. 

 

“The birds really did ruin Tippi Hedrin’s career, not Hitchcock?” Gerard asked, and Mikey grimaced. 

 

“No way. That’s on him.” 

 

The car shuddered to a stop at the curb and Mikey kicked open the door, hooked his hands on the roof and wrenched himself free. He tipped a crooked salute to Gerard and trudged up the gentle slope of the school grounds, crunch of dead leaves muffled by the layer of rotting foliage underneath. Gerard pulled at a fraying thread on the hot pink wheel cover and imagined the drive to his high school, the day that lay crouching in wait, and turned the car around towards home. 

 

Gerard was wrenched from the sequel to his morning’s dream by his mom, pushing into the room and knocking on his wall. He sat up, groggily, drool crystallized on one side of his face and hair in a rat’s nest. 

 

“Gerard Way,” Donna began, hands on both hips. 

 

“Mom?” His voice was a croak, hoarse, his mouth tasted brackish. 

 

“So how many days of school have you missed, huh? Because I heard ten, but there’s no way that’s true, because school’s only been in session for a month.” 

 

Gerard rubbed at his left eye, itching in its socket. “Uh.” 

 

“But thank god the principal called, and let me know, because he’s got a great opportunity for you to make up ten entire days of school in the first damn month.” 

 

Gerard meant to sit up, have this conversation properly, instead of reclined, wrapped in covers, but his limbs felt heavy. Like the vines from the forest encircled his wrists, growing up from underneath the mattress and keeping him lying flat. 

 

“I will be in here at 8am on Saturday morning to drive you to your community service. I’ll drag ya out in your jammies if you’re not up.” 

 

She paused, looked over her eldest son, pale and swaddled in his sheets, a stray curl matted to his forehead with sweat. 

 

“Decide what you want for dinner in the next ten minutes and it’s yours,” she added. “I love you, alright? Figure it out, baby.” 

 

_Essex County Weekly                                                    9/20/1993                                                                         $1.00_

_\--The discovery of Keighleigh Shomaker’s body on September 15 has officially been linked to a series of at least six slayings by a serial killer in the East Jersey area. Homicide detectives with the ECPD have identified the first victim as Brad Tunnock, killed August 19 at his home in Maplewood._

_\--No arrests have been made and no suspects have been announced. No witnesses have come forward publicly with knowledge of the killings. Detective Sherman Block told reporters this week that there were, “few links between the murders that lend themselves to motive or identity. It’s clear this guy is making it purposefully difficult for us. He doesn’t seem to fit any assailant profile we’re familiar with.”_

_\--A task force has been created to address growing community concerns. The ECPD recommends individuals stay in after 9:00pm, though there is no curfew currently in effect._

 

The car had been on a semi-paved back road for a good twenty minutes before the church lunged out from its perch behind the trees, reaching out for the travelers with a crumbling plaster and faux-marble grip. It was mostly intact, but, Gerard thought, far less intact than it should have been for his understanding of its age. It rose in jagged bits and pieces from the elms, crawled its way out of the earth in disparate corners and wrought iron. The grey stone that formed its body was patchwork and mottled like crocodile skin, slicing sharp angles and spires against the pale blue sky. If stone could rot it would look like this grim Frankenstein, slate roof shattered and stained glass windows dripping out onto the grass. They bumped and weaved their way closer and as much as the idea of physical, Catholic labor made Gerard shudder, he felt a sort of excitement brewing in his stomach as they slowed in the clearing surrounding the building. In a place like this, so desolate and hallowed, it was easy to populate the apses with bloody, weeping nuns and the belfry with rabid bats. Gerard dug a Sharpie from the depths of gum and receipts in the side door pocket and let his hand roam free, sketching lancets and fangs on his jeans. Donna caught his eye as she pulled the car to a stop in the mossy gravel and raised an eyebrow. The clothes were a moot point. All but the denim on his ass was covered in pen marks and even that was splotched with purple paint. The weeping willow struck poetically with silver lightning that took shape on his upper thigh was a drop in the bucket. 

 

Gerard got out of the car, listening to the muted crunch under his feet as he dug his toes in, scuffing away the rusty pink gravel to make a tiny indent in the hard-packed earth. The ground underneath was shockingly dark, a near-black brown and loamy soil like tar. Gerard let his eyes go soft, let his imagination dowse blood from deep underground and pull it, bubbling, to the surface. His converse, already ratty and grey, bloomed crimson as his foot sunk deeper into the dirt. He felt his center of gravity shift as he was sucked, greedily, into the maw of the clearing. 

 

By the time he registered his mother’s voice calling it had been a solid minute he’d spent staring straight down, rigid and swaying slightly. She slapped the side of his head gently and spun him around to watch two cars emerge from the tree line. Father Kelcie’s successor was the first to park and stepped out of the drivers’ seat ringed in the bright glow of the interior. Gerard thought fleetingly how warm it looked inside. How cold it suddenly seemed, here under the whispering branches, in the shadow of the long-deceased behemoth that still, somehow, managed to tower over him, the creeping shadow biting at his back. Father Kang smiled and opened his arms wide as he approached, Gerard behind Donna as they stepped forward to shake hands. 

 

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs. Way. And so lovely of you to volunteer, Gerard. It can be so difficult to get a project started so we were thrilled to hear you were available.” 

 

Gerard nodded back as Donna replied for him. The third car had finally come to a halt, exhaust billowing from the tailpipe. The kid in the passenger seat was out so fast the seatbelt swung off his chest and smashed into the cracking orange paint of the back door. The sound was jarring in the susurrus of tree branches and birdsong. Father Kang had swiveled expertly at the sound of the engine cutting out, motioned the kid and his dad over and begun the handshaking anew. 

 

“Frank, you know Michael, don’t you? Gerard’s younger brother, a-“ he tilted his head at Donna, “-freshman this year, is that right?” 

 

“Freshman, yeah,” Donna said, smiling with that soft fondness she always got when presented with an opportunity to brag about Mikey. “How do you like Queen of Peace?” 

 

Gerard shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked down, hoping desperately he’d sink back into the scenery, fall endlessly into the massive pewter bleakness of the façade at his back. Maybe let the ground actually swallow him this time, leaving just his fingertips poking out to point straight up into the bloated clouds. Frank did know Mikey. It had been part of Mikey’s campaign to cheer Gerard up about the community service, convincing him of the excellence of his partner in scholastic crime. It had been pretty successful, too. Mikey’s lunchtime excursions listening to Frank’s Walkman had provided Gerard with a running list of all their shared favorite bands. Gerard knew the cartoons Frank liked, the movies he talked about, the type of beer he stole from his older cousins. He knew so much more about this person he’d never met than he should, and he should really stop calling a dude Mikey’s age “kid” in his head. 

 

Because really, Mikey had just fucked him over, because he’d prepared Gerard for Frank being far too cool for him, but woefully unprepared him for Frank being far more handsome too. Frank was the amalgamation of every punk wet dream Gerard had ever pretended he didn’t have. His hair was as black as Gerard’s after he’d dyed it and draped in that unintentionally-intentional way over the side of his face. His jeans were ripped at the knees and his knees were dirty and pockmarked with tiny scars Gerard ached to lick. He still hadn't spoken a word, swallowing hard around the impure thoughts that skittered up his spine. Frank’s eyes were darting around as he bounced on the balls of his feet, and when his gaze slid down to align with Gerard’s an explosion went off in his gut.

 

Frank winked.

 

_Essex County Weekly                                               9/28/1993                                                                                   $1.00_

_\--Calls to the local police department have surged recently as East Jersey residents panic in the wake of the “Belleville Ripper” attacks. The ECPD has received reports as far north as Sussex with individuals reporting sightings of suspicious persons they believe might be connected. Calls have increased by 100 over this past week._

_\--Neighborhood watch committees are also on the rise, with neighborhoods looking to protect themselves from this shadowy and unknown figure. Sheila Bell, a police service representative, says people are, “terrified. They hear things at night and immediately assume the worst.”_

_\--The ECPD has put out a statement informing the public they should remain calm, and they’re currently investigating several new leads that will be revealed in time._

 

The job, as Father Kang had explained it to them, perched on what must be the only remaining chair in the church ruins, was far more janitorial than construction. After all, he'd  joked, he wouldn’t require high schools students to carry out the sort of renovations necessary to resurrect the structure in all its glory. 

 

“The intricacies are truly incredible. I do urge you to take some time out of every work day and consider the effort and devotion that went into this building. I think you’ll grow to love it as much as I do. It’s quite interesting, actually, the history of this place. Built from a non-native stone, as opposed to the more traditional clapboard method of the time. It’s such a shame, the condition it’s in.” Father Kang smiled and rose. 

 

“Which is why we need you two more than ever! Your parents assured me you had reliable transportation home. If there’s been a change in that arrangement, I’m more than happy to come back when your hours here are over and take you back to St. Valentine’s with me.” 

 

“Nah, I’m driving us both home,” Frank said, going up and back down on his toes as he added, “Father. Thank you.” 

Father Kang looked expectantly at Gerard. 

 

“Uh, yeah, yes. He’s got it. Thank you.” 

 

Father Kang smiled wider and clapped his hands together, putting one on each of their shoulders and leading them gently towards the heavy double doors of the church. They shrugged in the entryway like they’d been ripped out entirely and put back in askew. 

 

 

 

“Wonderful, boys, just wonderful. There’s a cooler inside with sodas and sandwiches and some general tools. Let me know before you’re back next weekend if there’s anything you’re missing or if you’d prefer different refreshments and I’m sure the church can furnish you with whatever.” He shook their hands a final time and strolled off towards his car. 

 

The headlights blinked once as he unlocked it and cast Frank and Gerard’s forms in stark relief against the rock and leaf litter. Gerard had time to think once more how calm it looked in the Father’s Buick, the only gold and glowing cabin in a dark and dense forest, the only light for eons of cramped darkness and crushing sandstone. Then Father Kang had gone and Frank was already inside, ice crunching under his hands as he hunted for a Pepsi. 

 

Another thing Gerard wished he didn’t know about Frank. He drank exclusively Pepsi. 

 

Frank tried to strike up a conversation as they wandered, venturing through more shattered glass and rotting pews than seemed possible for a church of its size. More rooms were intact than Gerard had assumed upon first glance and they weaved back into a short thicket of trees before they reached the outer ring of masonry. Gerard wanted to keep it going, to respond to Frank’s rambling observations, but there was something about the dampness of the air that choked down his voice. Frank must have felt it too, the mustiness and pressure, because he gave up before more than a few minutes had elapsed. It was as if the atmosphere out here was heavier, pressed down on them like butterflies behind glass, forcing them to shout to be heard from inches apart. 

 

In the end they only spent half an hour poking around before the skies opened up above them and let out a deluge of rainwater. Gerard grabbed the cooler and Frank helped him lug it to the car, a Creamsicle-colored lighthouse in the frothing sea that rose around their ankles. They collapsed into the seats dripping wet and Frank immediately shook his hair out like a dog, showering Gerard with little droplets. 

 

“Fuck dude. Talk about beginner’s luck, huh?” Frank asked, beaming at Gerard and squirming on the cushion. His boots squelched as he kicked them up onto the dash. 

 

Gerard nodded and leaned over to the window, cupping his hands around his eyes and trying to discern the shapes they’d seen minutes ago in the daylight. 

 

“You can’t see shit.” He looked over at Frank, still grinning, and grinned back. “Can we even drive like this?

 

Frank laughed. “Fuck no. It’s terrifying out here when it’s not the great flood.” 

 

Gerard laughed back and then shuddered as his nerve endings, sparking and excited from the adrenaline rush of getting caught in a downpour, suddenly remembering he was drenched like a sewer rat in a freezing car. 

Frank got the engine running and fiddled with the dials. 

 

“The heat’ll take a bit. And the radio’s shot.” He held up a tape. “But we are totally fucking set anyways.” 

 

The music started out low, just a shuddering bassline that sped up as the heater finally coughed into life, belching out clouds of hot air. The guitar and drum came in simultaneously and punded out a rhythm just loud enough to mix with the metallic ping of the rain on Frank’s hood. Gerard grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and flipped it open. Frank’s hand snaked from somewhere to Gerard’s left and snagged one before Gerard could grab his own. He looked over to see Frank with it between his teeth, hips canted up as he dug in his back pocket. 

 

“Thanks dude, you’re a lifesaver.” Frank said, pulling out a rhinestone-encrusted lighter and flicking the flame into existence. He leaned in close to Gerard and extended his hand. His face morphed as the redness flickered in and out and Gerard watched for a minute, unsure if the glimmer in his hair gave him a halo or the jagged shadows on his cheekbones gave him too many teeth. 

 

The car filled with a smoke that pulsed blue around them in the weak yellow illumination of the car’s overhead. Frank clicked the lighter on and off. The noise of the gas ignited in time with the track and Frank’s fingers, drumming out a beat. Gerard felt suddenly lightheaded. The smoke curled around him, pressed flush against his sides with sooty tendrils. His eyes burned desperately as he blinked and rubbed at them with balled up fists. The dream came to him again, unbidden, until he swore he could feel the claws of the raven sliding under his eyelids, and when he opened his eyes he was lost in the fog, alone. 

 

He sputtered and kicked the car door open, hung his head out over his knees and spat out into the river of mud that rushed by them. He heard Frank behind him, calling his name, and stared down, down, into the whorls and eddies and for a second he saw himself, slumped miserably in the Trans Am, as he floated away with the storm current. 

 

“Dude. Gerard.” Frank grabbed onto his shoulder and held on, not shaking him as much as securing him in place. Gerard spat again for good measure and pitched the cigarette into the mud. 

 

“I’m good, I’m good.” He drummed his heels on the side of the car to dislodge any mud and pulled the door shut. “Fuck that shit.” He looked down at this lap. “I’m fucking soaked.” 

 

Frank started to laugh, looking at the massive wet spot that spread from Gerard’s knees to chest and Gerard’s nonplussed expression. His hand had fallen off Gerard’s shoulder and he reached up again and mussed Gerard’s hair. 

 

“Yeah dude, that’s what happens when you freak out and open the door to the elements.” He snorted as he laughed and Gerard realized how clearly he could see Frank, now that the smoke had dissipated and left them alone in the gloom. 

 

“Just uh. Got a little hard to breathe.” Gerard said, trying aimlessly to fix his hair. 

 

“So you don’t, yknow, _smoke_ smoke,” Frank replied, waggling his eyebrows. “Never hot boxed a vehicle like a true delinquent?” 

 

Gerard raised his eyebrows back. “No one’s every hot boxed anything with nicotine.” 

 

Frank leaned in conspiratorially and knocked their shoulders together. “First time for everything.” 

 

“First rule of horror movies,” Gerard countered, “never get naked or intoxicated in spooky woods near abandoned buildings.” 

 

“Well, we’re fuckin’ neither, Gee, so we are the safe and sexless survivors.” Frank sighed and let himself fall back into the seat. 

 

“I could totally take Freddie.” 

 

Gerard tried to find a comfortable position in his sludgy pile of clothes. “You remember that urban legend, the one about the couple on Lover’s Lane and the maniac from the insane asylum? He’s got that hook hand they hear noises and drive off, and find the hook in the car door when they get home?” 

 

“Hell yeah,” Frank said, “but the boyfriend died in the version I heard.” 

 

The rain let up then, skies blooming harsh and bright above the roof, and gave them a short window for Frank to gun it back within city limits before they were drowning. Gerard dozed off and felt the car stop before he was fully conscious again. He sat up, looking for Frank. 

 

“Morning, sunshine. Ready to make a run for the front door?” Frank asked. 

 

He dropped his keys on the faded welcome mat and stumbled inside, grumbling, before he kicked his shoes off with enough force to send them flying into the opposite wall. He'd stripped out of his coat and shirt before Gerard has wrestled himself out of one Converse and was hanging off the balustrade topless when Gerard got free with a swampy suctioning noise. Gerard coughed into his sleeve. 

 

“My parents will be gone for like, five or six more hours. You can borrow some pajamas.” Frank stomped his way upstairs, yelling down over his shoulder. “You can call your mom on the phone in the kitchen!” 

 

Gerard did, just to have something to do that wasn't watching his new friend change. He promised to call her when he needed a ride back, trying not to overthink not asking for a ride right them, for staying. He went in the first open door at the top of the landing. The shower was running and he moved to sit on the bed before remembering how wet he still was. There was a pair of sweatpants and two shirts by the pillows and Gerard was spared obsessing over them too when the sound of the water stopped and Frank poked his head around the door, pointing. 

 

“All yours! Hand-picked.” He popped back into the other room and Gerard watched the steam bubble around the edges of the door and ooze across the carpet. He turned away and stripped quickly, Frank’s clothes soft and a little tight against his clammy skin. 

 

“Shower’s yours too, if you want it. It’s fucking cold out there. Twenty bucks I’m dying of pneumonia by this time tomorrow.” Frank exited the bathroom and flung himself back onto the bed next to Gerard, all the air escaping his body in an audible _whoomph_. 

 

“Y’want a towel for your hair?” 

 

Gerard acquiesced and occupied himself with the posters blue tacked all over Frank’s walls. 

 

“Did you ever see Zombi 2?” 

 

“Zombi 2? Nuh uh,” Frank said and wrapped himself up in a throw blanket. “Is there a Zombi 1?” 

 

“Technically I think? But it probably doesn’t matter. A zombie fights a shark in the second one, which raises some questions about zombie mobility, but also obliterates the need for context.” He pointed at a band poster near the door. “The font’s similar, it reminded me.” 

 

Frank beamed. “Yeah, you like it? Our drummer made it. He’s good at shit like that. Mikey says you draw too, right? I bet you draw some crazy shit.” 

 

“Mostly comics, right now. Like, Tales From the Crypt and stuff,” Gerard said.

 

“That’s fucking awesome. I wish I could draw. Maybe I’ll just pose for you instead.” 

 

Gerard didn't look over, feigning interest in his third examination of the room. “They’ll pay you real money for that, in art school. You could have like, a whole secret life as a figure drawing model.” 

 

Frank crowed in excitement and began suggesting name ideas for a vaguely pornographic superhero Gerard should draw for him. “Also, though, zombie shark fight? Definitely gonna need to see that.” 

 

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Frank’s house, migrating downstairs to watch movies with the three bags of popcorn Frank had lovingly prepared with M&Ms and eaten very little of. He passed out halfway through the second VHS and Gerard figured it was only fair, Frank deserved some peaceful rest too, and he was stuck trying to figure out why that exact thought made him so uncomfortable when he fell asleep too. He wandered the moors in his dream, suspiciously similar to what he remembers of An American Werewolf in London and agonizingly reminiscent of Wuthering Heights. 

 

It was morning when he woke up, soft light filtering through the blinds and the TV dead. Frank was at his right on the couch snoring quietly, only his face and a free arm peeking out from the quilts they’ve been buried under. Gerard was warm, his cheeks and nose frigid in comparison to his toes baking where they were curled in against Frank’s. He shifted to slide out from the nest and Frank, miraculously, didn't stir. A woman was in the kitchen when Gerard wandered in and offered coffee before Gerard could get awkward about having slept in what was basically a stranger's home. 

 

“Father Kang gave me your mom’s number, I let her know you’re here safe.” She smiled at him, and then crinkled her nose. 

 

“Your mom’s number as long as you’re Gerard, Frank’s detention buddy.” 

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Gerard said, gulping down the coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

 

She waved her fingers at him, smiling again. “Not at all. Frank’s friends are more than welcome. I did promise your mom I’d drive you home, though. Ready to go?” 

 

Gerard looked back to Frank on the couch. “Should I, uh..” he trailed off as Linda shook her head. 

 

“He’s out cold, I promise. I’ll let him know when he wakes up.” She stood and looked Gerard over again. 

 

“Did you come over in different clothes? 


	2. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aliens?”
> 
> Gerard nodded. “Aliens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My turn. Prompt: space. Nye's boyfriend is next. His theme: romcom. It's gonna be bitchin. -edgar

Father Kelcie was neither at the Waffle House nor imprisoned in the Vatican, nor was he a student/prisoner at the Vatican Vampire Reform School, which wasn’t actually a thing that existed as far as anyone was aware.Little did Gerard or Mikey or Ray Toro know, Father Jason Kelcie had not actually been blessed with a deal from the Vatican.In fact, anyone not directly involved in the case of Father Kelcie had no real clue of what happened to him after being ghosted away from that small New Jersey town one silent evening. 

 

Here one day, gone the next.Gone farther than anyone would deem plausible. 

 

For you see, when Father Kelcie stepped off of the plane in Rome, chilly Italian air swirling outside the airport windows and serving as an omen by being the strangest weather Rome had seen all month, he was twenty-six minutes from the biggest moment of his life. 

 

Though the phrase “stepped off of the plane” would suggest some level of consent and control over one’s actions, Father Kelcie’s situation was quite the contrary.His toes dragged against the airport floor while two burly men hauled him along with steel-like grips on his upper arms.Both were strong enough to only need one hand each, and the other they put to work by pressing two-pronged tasers against the sensitive skin of the father’s neck.They hummed quietly, a gentle threat backed by 1500 volts. 

 

Not that Father Kelcie was in much of a situation to protest.Morality and verbal agreements withstanding, Father Kelcie expected a full pardon of his sins upon his arrival before the Vicar of Christ.

 

Father Kelcie thought he had nothing to worry about. 

 

Father Kelcie thought wrong.

 

For it was twenty-seven minutes after stepping foot off the airplane that Father Kelcie was shoved to his knees on a cobble stone floor, in a dark lit room hundreds of feet below St. Peter’s Basilica.He was surrounded not by men in robes and masks as one would expect.Rather, half a dozen men in business suits and Men in Black style sunglasses wandered the room and studied its curiosities, as if they were observing a museum piece and not supervising a priest being sent to his demise.

 

“Please!” he choked out, voice coming out broken and throat tearing as if he were breathing razor blades.The air was dense this far below the catacombs.It smelled of mildew, sulfur, and something that polite people did not talk about under the Lord’s eye.Some fourth scent haunted the air, something toxic yet hollow.Something cold.Something that filled the father with dread right down to his very core. 

 

They never did take him to see the Pope the way Father Kelcie expected.In fact, His Holiness had been the one responsible for Father Kelcie’s orders in the first place.He was not homicidal purely by his own volition; he worked for a higher power. 

 

Not that he minded the taste of blood, he just would have prefered to choose his own location, and perhaps his own way of doing things. 

 

But orders were orders, and Father Kelcie had little flexibility in the assignments he was given.Just as well, the deed was done, the blood was spilt, and the Catholic Church was not holding up their end of the bargain. 

 

“You can’t do this to me!” he screamed.If he did not force his voice out at full volume, it would not escape him at all.He’d face his fate silently, without protest or plea.Silent and submissive, just the way the Church wanted, just the way Father Kelcie wasn’t good at. 

 

He’d tried it- for months and months he’d followed their orders and played their games, and punishment came anyways.Damnation came anyways.There was no saving himself.There was no reward for good behavior. 

 

They did not speak to him- hadn’t the entire trip there.Hours on hours of silence, and still more silence he was given as someone stepped forward and shoved the taser against his jaw and set it off. 

 

Father Kelcie screamed without meaning to, crumpled out of his upright, kneeling position, and convulsed on the floor.Bruising arms grabbed him and hauled him back up, slammed him down onto his knees, giving orders without words. 

 

He spat blood onto the floor of the House of God and sent venomous glares to anyone he could lay his eyes on.

 

Then someone stepped forward and took hold of a circular cast iron handle set into the middle of an ancient, wooden trap door.They took hold and tugged, and with a ‘whoosh’ that belonged in an episode of Star Trek more than it belonged in this torture chamber, the door was tugged open and propped up, and Father Kelcie’s breath immediately left him. 

 

For just before his eyes, in the basement of the church, set into the cobble stone floor, was a door into the abyss. 

 

Darkness swirled in purples and blues and inky blacks so dark they pressed on the edges of his sanity.It was shallow, yet it went on forever, and pinpricks of light danced among the darkness, both close enough to touch and impossibly far beyond his reach. 

 

“No,” Father Kelcie whispered.

 

“Obfero Magister mundi,” one of the men in black said, the first words Father Kelcie had heard spoken in fourteen hours.His brain scrambled for the latin he’d studied in the seminary, and his skin rose up in goose flesh at the implications. “Mors ultima linea rerum est.”

 

And with a fist to the side of his head, and strong arms pulling him off his knees and throwing him forward, Father Kelcie was falling. 

 

And falling.

 

And falling.

 

And while his vision danced white and his stomach heaved bile against the sensations that accompanied eternity, Father Kelcie clung to one final thought.“Mors ultima linea rerum est,” they’d said, but Father Kelcie prayed for the opposite.

 

He wished his strongest wish that death truly _was_ the final limit of everything, for if death was not the end and eternity existed at the end of this wormhole, Father Kelcie was not sure who he would have to face. 

 

The victims of his crimes, or the family he’d abandoned, or the Good Lord himself. 

 

The farther he fell, the worse it became, until every one of the father’s senses screamed and burned in white hot protest.Until his head swam, temples pounding with agony, and as the darkness swirled endlessly around him, Father Kelcie found more darkness behind closed eyelids. 

 

If death was not the final limit of everything, Father Kelcie had found himself in hell.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

“No look,” Gerard said.Frank followed the guidance of his painted finger and saw absolutely nothing.He squinted up at the sparkling sky, searching for one particular sparkle amongst thousands.Gerard had to be absolutely crazy to think Frank could actually see anything. 

 

Then again, Gerard was pretty crazy, in his own outlandish way. 

 

Frank had learned the word ‘outlandish’ from an SAT study book his mother found for him at the Salvation Army.It was a 2013 version and several years out of date at this point, but the thirty cents the Salvation Army wanted for it was far more reasonable than the thirty _dollars_ demanded at book stores. 

 

They didn’t have a lot of money to throw around like that.Frank wanted to tell his mother not to bother at all, that he didn’t want it to be any trouble, he’d be fine- but she wanted him to have a good future.She wanted him to be _smart_ and _successful_ and go to _college_.So he studied the book and threw smiles her way to show he was grateful and learned new words like ‘outlandish.’ 

 

Outlandish meant ‘bizarre’ or ‘queer,’ which Frank thought was both far too accurate and just a little ironic.Gerard wouldn’t laugh if Frank told him that, though.He’d have a speech.Gerard had a lot of opinions and a speech for seemingly everything.The more time Frank spent with Gerard, the more he learned stuff like this. 

 

Outlandish could also mean ‘foreign or alien.’Frank had to wonder if that definition fit any better.If anyone was going to be an alien, it was going to be Gerard.That would be sick- an alien friend.Frank crossed his fingers covertly where his hand was rested under his head and leaned a bit so his shoulder pressed more firmly against Gerard’s.He could feel the heat leaking off the other boy through the thick materials of his hoodie and jacket.Frank was freezing in the dewy grass.Gerard was polite enough to not point out the new contact.

 

“Yeah, I see it,” Frank agreed, lying, thrusting a finger at the sky in the general direction Gerard had been pointing.“Right there, right?” 

 

“Yeah,” Gerard said, and the pacification of Frank’s newfound knowledge set him back off on his previous tangent. 

 

“That’s Mars,” he explained, the same way he had been earlier.“And it’s lining up with stuff, you know?Like stars and stuff.It’s in _retrograde_ , and if everything keeps moving the same way, Jupiter will line up too.Then they’ll move the same way, and they’ll both be in retrograde, and then they’ll line up with the space station- and that’s when we’re really fucked.” 

 

“Why are we fucked?” Frank asked, struggling to keep his eyes open and piece together Gerard’s spiderweb way of talking.He wasn’t sure that Gerard actually had any clue what he was talking about-Gerard liked to talk about a lot of things that didn’t exist or didn’t make sense, like vampires and what to do during the apocalypse, and apparently Mars being in retrograde. 

 

Frank didn’t know anything about space, and beyond making a joke about ‘Freddie Mercury being in gatorade’ once, he didn’t have any background knowledge to help this conversation along.So he just let his eyes slip shut, pressing ever so slightly closer to Gerard and humming agreeably anytime Gerard paused to take a breath.Gerard didn’t seem to notice his inattention, distracted by his own voice, and Frank listened to the rise and fall of his pitch and thought, ‘This is nice.Even if Gerard is an alien.’

 

 

…

 

 

 

“Jason Kelcie, man of the cloth, murderer among prey.” 

 

The man, if he could even be called that, spoke with a voice of thunder.If Morgan Freeman spoke through a napkin on the telephone, it would only come close to matching the rumbling pitch of this creature’s vocal chords.Every word shook deep in the pit of Father Kelcie’s chest, and he feared that if it kept up much longer, his lungs would collapse.The oxygen mask they’d secured to the front of his face would be useless.He’d be dead at their feet. 

 

He feared that would be his situation soon enough anyways, lungs collapsed or intact.He was unsure of where he was, going off only his meager perception of the environment around him.The floor was cold beneath his knees, and it clanged when they’d dropped him, the metal of his shackled ankles ringing out sharply as they clanged against the metal flooring.It was deceptively white, almost passing for linoleum, but Father Kelcie knew the truth. 

 

The walls were the same matching white, probably the same matching metal.No windows were visible anywhere, and there weren’t any imperfections to be seen on any available surface.No smudge of dirt or speck of dust, no bolts or seams or cracks. 

 

The creature in front of him was just as mysterious.Father Kelcie couldn’t properly judge its height from his position on his knees, but it had to be nearing seven feet, if not taller.It was incredibly plain, a with arms and legs that seemed to branch off of its body without joints, not a curve insight until you considered the shoulders. 

 

Even then, the shoulders were boxy, and the neck far too slender to be practical.The head was like that of a human head, but entirely bald and entirely blank.There were no eyes or nose or mouth, no ears, no discernable features.This creature before him matched the dozens upon dozens surrounding him on the outermost edges of the room, but the energy radiating off of him made something blatantly obvious- this was the man in charge. 

 

He spoke again, and Father Kelcie trembled from it.“For years your kind has plagued us, wiping us from the earth.You labeled us demons and set about systematically executing us under the fabrication of a god.” 

 

Father Kelcie had no idea what he was talking about.Demons were a fairytale of sorts, used to scare children away from things that shouldn’t be meddled with- ouija boards and abandoned houses and underage drinking.Demons were an encouragement to toe the line and say your prayers, nothing more.Those who used the Church to fight this so called ‘evil’ were looked upon with a slightly squinted eye, regarded the way you regard your veteran uncle Stan and his almost blatantly racist ‘Nam stories at family functions.He’d speak, and you’d nod your head and say, “Yes, that’s a shame, Uncle Stan,” and that was the end of it. 

 

Even the Crusades and the witch hunts could be explained away for what they really were- the Church laying down its authority and making the lines very clear.Someone has to be in charge, after all.Every leading force has to demonstrate its power. 

 

“Is that so?” the creature asked, tilting its head curiously.If the thing had had eyes, they would be boring directly into Father Kelcie’s soul.He choked back a wave of nausea as his head began to ache.“Every leading force has to demonstrate its power,” the thing recited, verbatim from the inside of Father Kelcie’s head.

 

“You vermin have been inventing gods for all of history and using them to do horrible things,” the creature said, and Father Kelcie felt like he was burning.He flooded hot, began to sweat, did his best to keep his balance while his vision began to swim.

 

“Well, I have news for you, and every man in your ranks.As far as your species is concerned, we are God, and the Lord your God is a merciful god, sparing your species and leaving you be on the earth despite centuries of maltreatment.”There was a pause and a noise that may have been a considering hum if this were a normal situation.Here and now, it sounded like a growl, like the noise something makes before it strikes down and devours.

 

“You understand why we can’t let someone like you go.We have a contract with your higher ups.We leave you all in peace, and they hand over anyone preying on our kind, free to do with you what we want.Well I want vengeance.Your blood shall pay for the blood you’ve spilled from my children.”

 

The heat became worse, the pressure mounting.Father Kelcie began to shake, and as it all grew overwhelming, he rediscovered the ability to speak.“It wasn’t me!” he cried out, eyes squeezing shut from the pressure. “I was under orders.I didn’t know what I was doing!”

 

“Oh, the number of times I’ve heard _that_.Goodbye, Jason Kelcie.” 

 

Father Kelcie had more to say, things that he was aching to explain.He wanted to say that the Pope had given him a list along with step by step instructions of who to kill, who to target.The homicidal tendencies were his own, but not the victims.It was simply a work trip.He was just doing as he was told. 

 

He was _innocent_. 

 

Perhaps it was for the best that such explanations never left Father Kelcie’s lips, just as the High Ruler and all his telepathic wisdom hadn’t been paying terribly close attention to the Father’s thoughts.He reveled in the suffering, soakin up the sadistic pleasure that came from the Father’s surface-level cries of _please_ and _don’t_ and _God, Lord, save me_.

 

With a simple press of energy, it all tipped over the edge.Father Kelcie’s head burst like a crushed grape, blood splattering against the pristine walls and floors and faces of silent aliens.He slumped to the ground, lifeless and boneless, crushed under all the weight of the universe, quite literally. 

 

Blood everywhere, the first imperfection in the otherwise perfect ship, just as humans were the first imperfection in an otherwise perfect universe. 

 

At least the Catholic church was cooperating, turning over criminals so heinous they _dared_ to kill the offspring of the celestials.At least the High Father failed to learn of the Pope’s misdoings, sending his men out with the express purpose of murdering these half-breeds, eradicating the last traces of these strange creatures from an otherwise undisturbed planet. 

 

At least everyone continued to live in confusion, unaware of the sins of the others, just as God intended.

 

 

 

….

 

 

 

“You know the ancient people weren’t actually that much stronger than us,” Gerard said while Frank grunted under the weight of the half-rotten church pew they were hauling down the mossy front steps.His sneaker skidded against the slick ground and he stumbled to keep his balance.Gerard paid him no mind and kept pushing the pew forward, face red with exertion and mouth still running. 

 

“They didn’t build the pyramids and all that.Not by themselves anyways.” 

 

“Who built them then?” Frank asked.They hauled the pew across the gravel parking lot and into a small clearing at the edge of the woods, where their wood pile was growing to be quite impressive in size.Frank hoped they’d be able to set it on fire when they were done with all of this.They probably wouldn’t be allowed to, but a kid could dream. 

 

“It was aliens,” Gerard said, then counted down as they swung the pew back and forth, then let it fly.It made a small arch through the air and landed at the base of the pile with a loud _crack_!Frank wiped his dirty hands off on his jeans. 

 

“Aliens?”

 

Gerard nodded.“Aliens.” 

 

“Where the hell did you hear that?”He clambered up the front steps and pushed open the heavy church door with his shoulder, wiping his nose on his wrist as he went.It was running again.He’d have to keep an eye on that.Gerard grimaced and fished a tissue out of his pocket.He was in some weird anti-germ phase, according to Mikey. 

 

“History channel,” Gerard answered, reaching around Frank and grabbing a can of soda out of the melting cooler.“They make a lot of sense, you know.” 

 

Frank didn’t know, and even if he did, he highly doubted it.“Uh huh.” 

 

The sound of the pop can opening was deafening in the otherwise silent church.Frank was getting a sinus headache, pounding at his temple and sore around his eyes.Great.If it turned into sinusitis, he was gonna be pissed.

 

They technically had a few more hours of work left, but Frank figured they could stretch the truth a bit and pretend the overcast gloom was the sunset.He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as Gerard dug a cigarette out of his pocket.It was, for some reason, separated from its pack and bent to the point of nearly breaking in half.Gerard twisted it back into shape with chewed up fingers before deeming it acceptable and pulling out a lighter. 

 

“You want to get out of here?” he asked, searching for his keys in the pocket of his jean jacket.The pounding in his head got worse, and he nearly choked on the smoke Gerard had swirling in the air around him. 

 

“Only if you come over.Mikey’s been bitching about not seeing you enough lately.I can show you that alien show.” 

 

Frank would agree to anything that offered him the chance to let down.He nodded and shoved his car keys into Gerard’s hand.“Great.You drive.” 

 

“Whoa, you okay?” Gerard asked, and he had a point.Everyone was aware that Gerard’s driving habits were borderline manslaughter.If Frank hadn’t had self-destructive tendencies, he would have spent every car ride clinging to the seat belt and screaming for Gerard to _slow the hell down_ , like their friend Ray did. 

 

“I’m great,” Frank lied, and stumbled out the door and down the steps.His car waited across the parking lot, just a short distance away.Frank scrubbed at his nose again and blinked away the headache stabbing him in the eyes. 

 

Little did Frank know, throughout town there were at least four other people groaning at sudden headaches and slumping into nearby chairs, suffering from bursts of energy taking place in the heavens above them. 

 

It was a phenomenon in town, one the doctors hadn’t figured out and the celestials hadn’t bothered to discover, than anytime something happened in the other realm, in the mystical space ship floating light years above the Earth- anytime something happened to bring the celestials any amount of joy, it caused their offspring nothing but suffering.

 

Pure, unadulterated, migraine-like suffering.

 

“Hang in there, man.My mom’s got advil,” Gerard said, as he turned the key and leaned over the center console to buckle Frank’s seat belt for him.Frank batted his hands away and did it himself- he was in pain, not incompetent. 

 

In fact, Frank Iero would never know how _not_ incompetent he was.But that, just like the lies in the heavens and the secrets kept by the Vatican, was really for the best.For if the half-breed offspring knew of their abilities, or even of their heritage…well, some secrets were best kept secret. 

 

“Wait, are you talking about the show Ancient Aliens?” Frank asked through clenched teeth, eyes pressed firmly closed because any light was too much. 

 

He practically heard Gerard nod next to him.“Yeah.It’s wild.”

 

“That show is bull shit.” 

 

It just so happened that show held the truest truths in the universe.Not that anyone needed to know. 


End file.
